


Quiver

by beaubete



Series: Quiver/Shift [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Dirty Talk, Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:02:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond is still not getting an Aston Martin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiver

**Author's Note:**

> More Skyfall/Bond fic, though not in the same ‘verse as the other one I wrote. Not as kinky as that one, either, but still quite dirty despite it. Enjoy!

She’s whippet-thin, lovely and sleek, and when he strokes a hand along her flanks she gives a throaty growl.  Bond can’t keep the admiration from his eyes, even as he knits his brow in mock consternation.

“This is not,” he says, thumbing the throttle until she gives a little buck into his hands, “an Aston Martin.”

“Well spotted.”  He’s not having this conversation again, nor any variation of this conversation; they’ve had it six times this month.

“But it’s Christmas,” Bond says, pouting.  The man’s lip is actually puffed out, bitten red and chapped.  Bond catches him looking and licks into the corner, a taunt.

“Boxing Day,” Q corrects him, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as Bond leans in close.

“I am demanding presents here, Q.  You can’t imagine what I’ll give you in return,” Bond purrs.

“It had better be that dossier you’re being sent after, 007,” Q reminds him.

“Well, yes,” Bond agrees.  “And.”

“And?”  He has to admit, he’s interested; each of Bond’s hands is larger than Q’s head, and he can feel the heat of the man where he stands practically between his legs.  He wonders what Bond would offer that Q could consider worth millions of pounds and his job; he wonders what it would take for him to accept.  He wonders whether his hipbones would feel as nice smashed against the man’s face as he suspects they would.

“And,” Bond promises.  He smirks, looks satisfied, and irritation wells up in the space between Q’s shoulders.

“Prove to me you can bring it back in one piece and I’ll think about it,” he all but snaps, turning to pick up the helmet on the desk.

“How am I supposed to think about anything else?” Bond asks, and Q bites his lip to keep from gawping.  He has no idea, himself—he’s planning on managing it through a hope and a prayer and probably masturbation.

“Let me show you how to use this thing,” Q says instead of the  _yes_ ,  _please_  that bubbles up behind his lips.  When he tugs the helmet on, it’s a bit too loose, air hissing in to cradle his skull like a lover’s hands as he tugs the straps tight beneath his chin.  When it stops, he can’t hear the words shaping Bond’s mouth; he touches the strap again and his voice seeps in, tinny and distant.  “The microphone, 007.  The helmet’s noise cancelling; use the microphone.”

Bond picks up the small mouthpiece from Q’s desk.  His voice is much too loud: “Better?”

“Don’t talk directly into it, man,” Q scolds him, wincing.  “You’ll deafen me.”

Bond watches him through narrowed eyes, but he pulls the microphone down to his chest, where it would be clipped to a tie.  “Better?”  And Christ, it’s like he’s whispering directly into his ear.  The helmet holds him securely, but Q can almost imagine Bond’s lips at his ear, the puff of his breath in his hair and the slight wet of his mouth as the plosive tapping sound shivers across his skin.

“Yes, rather,” Q manages, turning back to the bike.  “What were you saying before?”  He touches the bike cautiously, like the expensive piece of equipment it is. 

“I was saying that I expect I might have a bit more experience with this sort of thing than you seem to be giving me credit for,” Bond says.

“No, you weren’t,” Q says.  “Too many words for that, and doesn’t suit the context, besides.”  He swings his leg over the bike, leaning into its sinuous curves to fiddle with the dials.  Bond is suspiciously silent—“Stop staring at my arse,” Q says peevishly.  He can feel the thin tweed of his trousers stretched taut over his back end; it’s mortifying to think of Bond having a good, long look at how little he has to offer on that front.  Back, rather.

“But it’s presented so nicely,” Bond tells him, confirming Q’s suspicions.  “Framed, like a lovely painting.”

“Flattery will not get you an Aston Martin.”  Q rolls his eyes at Bond’s dry chuckle.  “Nice try, though.”

“Apparently it won’t even get me a Ducati,” Bond says, and Q laughs, too.

“Would you kiss your mother with that mouth?  She’s Ecosse,” Q tells him.  He curls over her as if he could soothe her wounded feelings.  “Not some Italian tart all dolled up, playing at being fast.  I had her brought in from the U.S.—she’s handmade, every seam on her perfectly welded body done by a man and perfect to the thinnest fraction.  And once I put my hands on her, I only made her better.”

“I’m starting to feel jealous over here.” 

“You should.  I’d fuck her if I could.”

“I think that’s something I’d like to see,” Bond says, and something in his voice draws Q’s attention up from the sleek gleam of the bike’s curves.  Bond’s feet are wide; he looks strong and powerful and masculine, the crisp creases of his suit pressed out by the shape of his shoulders, his thighs.  The bike throbs between his legs and Q thinks maybe he’d regret this whole deal if he weren’t so close to coming.

“I’ve added guns, of course—two fore and one aft—but where she truly excels is speed.  Not exactly street legal after the things I’ve done to her, but then again so few things are,” Q says wryly.  “Fairly standard additions here,” he strokes along the rounded edge of the gas tank until an LED comes to life, hidden beneath what looks like glossy paint.  His fingertips dance around it; she’s not hot enough yet for him to touch it, and he doesn’t want to start something he can’t finish.  “Emergencies only, of course.”  He can feel his throat growing hoarse, closing around the words.  “It’ll be the ride of your life.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” Bond murmurs in his ear, even as Q can feel his leg coming over, his body pressing firm and hot against his back.  Bond’s hard against his arse and he rolls up, driving Q mercilessly into the thrumming of her powerful engine.  Q sits back against him and there’s no hiding the erection he’s got now, highlighted in golden tweed against glossy black fiberglass.  Bond’s hands cup his hips and he sighs, gathering himself.  He’ll at least pretend to be professional as Bond inches lovely hot hands into his lap and holds him still against the bike.  She’s a lady and a tease, and the way her shivers make their way up to knot in his low belly brings stars to his eyes.  He rocks against her and Bond’s voice is in his ear again, low and thick.  “Tell me more.”

“Wireless signal amplifier in the boot,” Q continues.  His breath grows tight.  “We won’t have to worry about losing you.  Everywhere you go, you’ll have me in your ear.”

“I can think of other places I’d like you,” Bond says, and Q can feel—actually, properly feel—his breath along the back of his neck.  Bond’s tasting him like a snake, tongue darting out almost close enough to touch, all along the ridge of his shoulders.  Q reaches back blindly with one hand—Bond’s thigh is hard muscle and damp with sweat, even through his suit—and Bond sinks his teeth into the edge of his shoulder, hard enough to bruise and leave him panting, thrusting into the seat.  “On your back, for one.  On my bed.  On your bed, where you feel comfortable and safe until I’m there, the wolf who’s eaten Granny; and oh, what big eyes you have right now,” Bond taunts, dragging the points of his teeth along Q’s throat until he whimpers.  “I would devour you.  Right there in your own bed, pin you down and lick you out until you come screaming; you’ve heard me do it before—and did you wank after?  Slug back your tea and pretend you weren’t bothered—the pinnacle of professionalism, our Quartermaster—and touch yourself at home?” 

The words nearly hurt, he’s so aroused.  Bond whispers them, so low and sweet and threatening that he knows that no one would hear them, even if they were in the same room.  They’d see him, of course, legs spread and trembling as Bond crushes him into the vibrations cock-first, see him with his mouth and eyes open and wet and wide, see the way he lets Bond grind against his arse until he’s sure he’ll have friction burns tomorrow but he just doesn’t care, but they wouldn’t hear Bond.  They wouldn’t hear his words, those pretty words about how pink and lovely Q’s cock must be and how Bond wants to fuck him, right here, and leave the come stains across the slick leather upholstery, customization and modern art in one.  His hips buck once, hard, and he’s straining, spilling, screaming wordless and then soundless as Bond covers his mouth until his glasses fog up and he slumps across the bike, legs still juddering from sensation.

He manages a breathless, broken laugh, heaving himself up to regard the sticky mess in his lap that’s starting to show.  “Still not getting an Aston Martin,” he says.  Bond laughs.   His cock is still nestled tight against Q’s arse; he feels exquisitely hard.

“I’ll just have to try harder next time.”  Q has no idea if he’ll survive it.


End file.
